


cannot sail on

by couldaughter



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019), Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Case Fic (ish), Gen, Weird Crossovers Central
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-23 21:23:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18710218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/couldaughter/pseuds/couldaughter
Summary: Alison nodded as well, looking distracted. This was likely because the headless man was now fumbling across the coffee table looking for something or other, hands phasing directly through the untouched teacups and plate of biscuits.I therefore left Nightingale to it - he’s getting rather good at public-facing community policing, we’re all very proud - and went to find any evidence that might be lingering in the crumbling brickwork and cracked window panes of your classic Grade I listed.





	cannot sail on

**Author's Note:**

> Knowledge of at least one canon probably required. I made Alison and Mike's last name Michaels because I think the name Mike Michaels would be peak comedy.

Button House had long been acknowledged as a hotspot (or, well, cold spot) for paranormal activity. Even to the point of having a few dedicated pages in the rapidly disintegrating pages of the Folly casebook backlog from the decades surrounding the death of Victoria, full of rapturous descriptions of minor haunting and occasional digressions on the poor state of the reduced Button bloodline in recent years.

This had not been of much note to me as a young apprentice, naive and boyishly handsome, but as an experienced wizard of 30-something and above average rugged good looks it became somewhat more intriguing. An old country pile in the arse end of Surrey was pretty much the last thing on my mind when dealing with Martin Chorley and then Lesley, but after everything began to calm down again I found myself spending a lot of my then copious down time in the mundane library reading through stacks of ancient case files.

And so it was with some limited delight that myself and Nightingale's latest country jaunt ended up involving the current (living) residents of said country pile in our enquiries.

Looming above the Jag's hood, an old country pile slouched into the gravel drive, plonked down on the end of a mile long track through wrought iron gates with a pretension that took my breath away. The stonework was interesting, at least - I'd done a cheeky Google before leaving the teach cave that morning and seen a few interesting tidbits about monastery dissolution and other former-aspiring-architect's specialist subjects.

Nightingale still wouldn't let me apply for Mastermind, but I was pretty sure I was starting to wear him down with some well placed jargon about community engagement.

Really I just wanted to let John Humphries have it for his definitely personal stake in rejecting me from the Junior edition in '03.

"Now, Peter," Nightingale began, speaking with what I had long come to understand as his proactive conflict resolution voice (Don't Do Anything Rash, Peter sometimes echos in my dreams). "The residents of Button House may not be aware of any spectral activity within the walls."

"Well, I'll do my best not to get chatting to," I checked my notes. "Lady Fanny Button, died 1905 of apparently accidental defenestration." I'd underlined defenestration twice with admittedly ghoulish delight.

"I'm fairly sure defenestration is a motivated act," said Nightingale. He was trying not to grin, I could tell, but I let him slide and hummed noncommittally rather than call him out.

The magical crime in the area had, rather fortunately for my amateur ghost hunting dreams, occurred in the very grounds of Button House. While the (extensive) lawns and lakes and other aristocratic bullshit were not open to the public, the previous occupant had become rather lax on security prior to her death and so the body was discovered by a very unlucky dog-walker on a shortcut to East Clandon.

The body was also a dog-walker, as it happened, although the dog was long gone by the time of discovery. Not even Toby the Wonder Dog managed to sniff the poor pooch out, and certainly not for lack of trying.

It was an admirably short walk from the car to the front door, at least. Even if I did feel a little like the place itself expected me to use the servant's entrance.

"Unto the breach, then," I said, and pulled the doorbell. A crowd of Horrible Histories extras peering out of a second storey window gaped down at us. Miraculously, I resisted the urge to wink at them.

A young-ish white woman with a deeply nervous expression answered the door. I showed her my warrant card on reflex, and she barely glanced at it.

An encouraging sign.

"Good afternoon," I said, not bothering to hide the Kentish Town. "I'm Sergeant Grant, and this sharply dressed man beside me is Inspector Nightingale. We're here about the sad events of this morning."

"Oh," said the woman - Alison, I remembered from the briefing that morning. "You'd better come in. Sorry about the mess, we're still in the renovating stage."

"You inherited the place, yes?" I asked politely as we were led into a reception room absolutely teeming with ghostly apparitions.

"Yes, bit of a shock to be honest," replied Alison. She stepped carefully around a headless Tudor and picked up a plate of biscuits from a chess board half played.

I shook my head. Never worth the risk of ending up under an obligation, even from a harried woman with eyes like an open book. A woman who could definitely see ghosts.

This was going to be a really fun enquiry.

I coughed significantly. Nightingale turned to look at me, having been caught up staring at the previously mentioned member of the Headless Hunt.

"I'd best perform a preliminary IVA, sir," I said. “If that’s alright with Mrs Cooper of course.”

He nodded, and took a seat on an aging chaise longue. “Yes, Peter, that sounds like an excellent idea. Carry on.” He was sat ramrod straight on the sofa, legs crossed at the ankle, notebook resting square on his knee. It struck me, as it often does, that the world ought to be in black and white and hints of sepia around him.

Alison nodded as well, looking distracted. This was likely because the headless man was now fumbling across the coffee table looking for something or other, hands phasing directly through the untouched teacups and plate of biscuits.

I therefore left Nightingale to it - he’s getting rather good at public-facing community policing, we’re all very proud - and went to find any evidence that might be lingering in the crumbling brickwork and cracked window panes of your classic Grade I listed.

 

* * *

 

I was lying prone on the hardwood floor of an upstairs music room (ancient grand piano sitting disused in the corner, of course) when I heard a muffled, “Good lord,” behind me.

This was the moment a latent wave of vestigia washed over my… whatever organ deals with ESP, and I got struck with a faceful of copper and sailcloth. I sneezed, because of an unrelated dust cloud, and pushed myself to my feet.

Coming face to face with anybody you’re not expecting is liable to cause a bit of alarm, I think, but I should really be forgiven for jumping at the sight of a tall blond man _sans_ trousers.

Not least when, on second glance, I could’ve sworn I recognised his smug little face.

“Good afternoon,” I said. It always pays to be polite to the demi-monde. “DS Peter Grant, Met Police. Would you happen to know anything about the suspicious death that occurred last night?”

Tall-and-smug shrieked and ran off, phasing straight through the door to the upper landing and leaving me standing bemused in a cloud of dust. Absolutely typical. I was about to return to recording my IVA when a polite cough interrupted my train of thought. I turned.

“Don’t mind him,” said a scoutmaster who’d fought Robin Hood and lost handily. “He’s a little nervous around police.”

I grinned at this new, much more accommodating ghost. “Hi,” I said. “I hope you’re not going to flee before the long arm of the law.”

“Oh, no,” he replied. “Reckon dying the way he did would give anyone a case of the collywobbles.” He snorted. “I’m Pat, anyway. Always nice to meet a new face in these parts.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It’s not often I get a positive reception on the second try.”

Pat rubbed the back of his head. His arm jostled the arrow on the way, but he didn’t seem bothered by it. “Oh, well, we’ve only just got used to one person being able to see us! Must be tons of ghosts around London I s’pose, though.”

“Oh, well, you know,” I said, non-committal. “Depends on the area, really.” I didn’t want to risk inflicting the vestigia lecture on Pat. Not least because he seemed rather more autonomous than most of the other ghosts I’ve had cause to meet in my life.

There was an awkward pause. I fought the urge to start whistling, if only to avoid my overwhelming urge to reference Ghostbusters.

“Would you fancy a tour?” Pat asked, a desperately hopeful look on his face.

I don’t know how to express to you how quickly I took him up on that offer. A New York Minute would be infinite in comparison.

 

* * *

 

“And _this_ is the drawing room!” Pat said, sweeping his arm to encompass the room I’d first entered about half an hour before. He’d taken me on an incredibly comprehensive tour of the building, from attics to a plague-victim filled cellar (they’d given me a few pointers on boiler maintenance that I’m still keeping in my back pocket) and given me some valuable eyewitness information about the murder the night previous to boot.

Apparently there’s not much to do at night as a ghost if you’re no longer committed to haunting the living residents of your final resting place, so he’d had an excellent view of the lightshow at just past midnight.

He’d also gushed at me about his grandson, also named Pat, who he’d met only once (post-death to boot) but was utterly taken with for understandable reasons. I showed him a few pictures of my own sprog on my phone, which impressed him on multiple levels.

“And it has _how_ much memory?” he’d asked, gobsmacked, squinting at the backplate in awe. I’d only demurred and pressed on through to the third bathroom of the tour.

I slid onto the chaise longue beside Nightingale, who was just wrapping up his interview.

“Great news, sir,” I said. “It’s definitely right up our alley.”

“Good to have you back, Peter,” he said cheerfully. “Alison here was just filling me in on the history of the place - did you know there’s a Stone Age settlement nearby?”

I affected a look of wide eyed surprise. “No, really? Did the caveman give it away?” In for a penny, and all.

Alison made a noise somewhere between a cough and a scream. I smiled at her.

“Great news,” I said, conjuring a werelight to flicker menacingly beneath my chin. “We’re not just the police.”

Nightingale rolled his eyes. I grinned, feeling appropriately wicked.

Surprisingly, Alison accepted the idea of magic police much more quickly than I had, way back in the halcyon days of 2011.

“Makes sense, doesn’t it,” she said, sighing with what I thought was an unnecessary level of woe. “Everything’s going tits up in the world, may as well have evil wizards to fight.”

“Sing it, sister,” said disgraced MP Julian Fawcett, who I’d discretely googled on my phone in the intervening thirty minutes since we met. Alison and I both winced.

I glanced towards Pat, who shrugged.

“So, you can see them too, then?” Alison asked.

Nightingale nodded. “It’s not quite one of the perks of the job, but yes, we’re both somewhat well acquainted with the… undead population.”

“Undead, not unperson,” I quoted earnestly. Pat attempted to bump me on the shoulder, but his fist passed straight through my chest and out the back.

It was a truly indescribable sensation.

“How many of them are hanging about, anyway?” I asked. “I’ve met Pat and Mister Tory Sleaze over there, but no one else has popped up long enough to be introduced.”

I was beginning to think Alison’s default expression might be a prolonged wince.

 

* * *

 

“Oh,” I said. “I see what you mean.”

The drawing roomful of ghosts nodded in understanding. Nightingale had vanished in the direction of the kitchen to make tea some minutes before while Alison rounded up her erstwhile squatters, so I was more or less on my own with about a dozen spirits from across human history.

“A new friend!” squealed an excessively cheerful black woman in what looked, to my uneducation eye, like a Georgian dress complete with wig and bustle. “Oh, do tell us all about London these days. Do they still have bear baiting out in the East End? I did so love the spectacle of it all!”

“Don’t let Kitty get to you,” said Pat, knowingly. “She’s a sweetheart, but she doesn’t half go on a bit, don’t you Kitty.”

She giggled and nodded. “Yes, I do. It’s all just so exciting! _Three_ people to talk to!”

“Yes, well, I suppose if you’re more interested in that than in the level of conversation they can offer…” put in Fawcett, who’d sidled in through the door (literally) only moments before.

“Do at least try to be civil, won’t you?” asked the one military ghost, who was sat, shoulders back, in a winged armchair by the chess board. “It behooves us to be polite to guests, if they insist on visiting.”

“Oh, I’ll show you _polite_ , Mister Stiff-Upper-Lip…”

Nightingale chose that moment to re-enter, carrying a tea tray and somehow making the whole endeavour, chipped mugs and all, look effortlessly respectable.

“Thanks, sir,” I said, taking a mug and gulping down about half the tea before my tongue could register the temperature. “This lot are definitely a two-mug crowd.”

Nightingale hummed in agreement. “Yes, it’s certainly unusual to have such a high concentration of spirits in any stately home, considering the relative staying power of vestigia in Tudor-era brickwork. Not to mention the apparent Neolithic apparitions." Robin the caveman gave us a cheery wave. "Postmartin must have research on it tucked away somewhere.”

“That card catalogue might be getting a lot of action soon, yeah,” I said, then nodded towards the Captain, who was doing his best to look as innocuous as anyone 70 years dead might manage. “Friend of yours?”

Nightingale glanced across, then made a face I couldn’t begin to describe before stepping closer to the armchair.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, quietly. At the time I thought it must’ve been to me, but it’s difficult to tell, this long after the fact.

I left him to it, feeling oddly intrusive, and went to chat to Lady Button about architecture. She was delighted to have a willing ear to ramble about renovation to, and complain about the lovely new couple’s efforts to restore the plumbing to working order, and only made one insultingly ignorant comment about my probable origins in ‘Darkest Africa’, so I counted it as a win.

“They alright?” asked Alison, who’d come in with an actual pot of tea to leave steeping on the sideboard. She nodded towards the armchair, where Nightingale and the army ghost were locked in quiet conversation.

“Probably,” I said. “Nightingale’s just, uh… interested in the history of the period.” It’s really bloody difficult to navigate having a hundred year old boss, let me tell you.

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now.” Alison smiled wryly. “I really didn’t think the Captain had it in him, but he does keep staring at Mike’s bum when he thinks I can’t notice, so who am I to judge.”

I snorted.

Nightingale came back for another mug of tea about ten minutes later, looking somewhat distant. There was a faint crease between his eyes, which I knew from long experience meant he was probably very upset somewhere deep inside, but he was absolutely not going to be discussing it.

“You alright?” I asked, because I have never known what’s best for me, and don’t think I ever will.

“Not particularly, no,” said Nightingale. “But we have more important things to concern ourselves with than that.”

“Oh, yes, murder,” said Robin, the literal caveman. “Man go boom, little man get lots of little pieces, man run off, little man get bits eaten by dog, new dog comes with big woman, big woman scream, police come.”

I blinked. “A… very good summary,” I said. “You mind if I write that down with a bit of grammar thrown in to mix things up?”

“Yeah, that’s good.” Robin grinned, showing off two rows of sharp snaggle teeth. “If little man come here for haunts will let him know you help.”

“Well, thanks,” I said. I turned to Alison. “We, uh, may be back for further inquiries, but I think we can safely let you off the hook for the potential suspects list.”

“That’s a relief,” said Alison. “Mike’s been at the solicitor’s all day trying to work out how planning permission is gonna work for the next stage of renovations, we don’t really need a murder trial on top of everything else.”

“Very reasonable,” I agreed. “Give us a ring if the ghosts think of anything else that might help. Uh, you may have to relay, though. I’m not sure if we’d hear them down the phone line.”

I could already see an experiment forming in my mind’s eye, but I doubted it’d come to anything much. I made a mental note to email Abdul about it later.

Nightingale waved me out to the Jag with a muttered ‘a moment’. I went to sit on the hood and look effortlessly sexy for a bit, surveying the wide open grounds blocked only by a far off view of police tape twisting in the breeze.

My phone rang - Bev, checking in.

She was going to _absolutely lose it_ over missing a whole houseful of ghosts. I smiled, and answered the call.

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of eminently stupid but also, who am I if not the ultimate creator of stupid Rivers of London crossovers? I spoke the BA/Pegg & Frost collab into existence so really, I'm valid.
> 
> Title from the ballad 'Pretty Polly'.
> 
> Find me on twitter/tumblr @dotsayers, being a general lesbian disaster in a number of niche fandoms, but none more niche than this crossover one I've made a nest for myself in.


End file.
